


"My L'manburg"

by arson_co



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Disassociation, Dream Smp, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Major Character Injury, Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Manipulation, Minecraft, Panic Attacks, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, based on the dream smp storyline, im sorry in advance, l'manburg, manburg, oh gods this hurts to write, this is literally my second fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:20:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28578138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arson_co/pseuds/arson_co
Summary: “Hello, Fundy.”He had said the words without registering them. The foxman, Fundy, stared at him in what once was fear, but now terror.“No. No, no, no, no, no. No. I’m seeing things. I have to be,” and with that Fundy fled, guitar in one hand and flag in the other.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 82





	1. Fundy

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to whatever this is. Please leave a comment with your favorite headcanons I might use them in the storyline. 
> 
> Have a great day. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur comes back from the dead, and Fundy is the first to see him.

Beneath a tree, a man sat, drifting through his unconscious mind. His back was against the rough surface of the bark, and his legs stretched into the tall grasses around him. A gentle breeze blew through the messy, gray-brown waves of his hair. It was quiet, peaceful.

A soft strum of a guitar broke the solitude of his sleep. His eyes opened, revealing a black that could only be described as that of night. If a person were to look carefully, they might mistake the light in his eyes for the stars in the sky. With his hands dusting along the grass at his sides, the man searched for the source of the sound.

A few yards away, propped up against a crumbling, obsidian wall was a man holding a guitar. The man, under closer inspection, appeared to be more fox than human, with his red ears poking through slits in his cap. Red fur traced along his face and hands, his nose the black dot you would see on a dog. 

However, this fox man didn’t appear to know that there was someone else before him, despite being in such close proximity. His paws held the guitar lightly, as though it was a great treasure. A name was etched into its base, but was too far away to be read clearly. Careful claws stroked the metal strings and a chord reverberated off the obsidian walls around them.

To the man beneath the tree, the chord felt familiar. Almost as one would expect home to feel like. He began to search through his memory, trying to find what song the chord belonged to. It was pointless. Whatever song it was had left his mind, probably long ago.

The fox man continued, playing a few more chords and humming before opening his mouth to sing.

“I heard there was a special place, where men could go and emancipate, the brutality and the tyranny of their rulers,” his voice cracked a little, emotion choking his performance. “Well this place is real you needn’t fret, with… with...” here he stopped for a moment. His wave of emotion crashed over him, bringing tears to his eyes, “with Wilbur, Tommy, Tubbo, fuck Eret. It’s a very big and…” again he stopped, a sad smile on his face. 

“It’s a very big and not blown up L’manburg,” the foxman finished. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he pulled his shawl tighter around his shoulders.

No. Not a shawl. A flag.

Burnt around the corners, and full of holes, a flag lie on the foxman’s back. It’s blue red and white stripes hugged his right side, while a black semi-circle, lined with yellow, held close to his left. Various shapes that appeared to be “x”s lie in the black and white spaces.

He tried to pull it even tighter around him, but a corner of it was snagged on a nearby sign. 

“L’man tree.”

As the foxman tugged at the still caught fabric, he began to curse, “Fuck you, Wilbur. Why’d ya have to do it?”

Wilbur. The man beneath the tree, he was Wilbur. Though he could offer no proof it was truly him being referred to, he recognized the name as much as he would recognize his reflection in a mirror.

“I’m sorry, can I help you?” he asked the foxman, head cocked to the side.

The foxman responded to the sound with fear. While it had been unexpected, it would make sense for the man to be startled. He clearly hadn’t know anyone was there.

“Dad?”

However reasonable the fear in his eyes was, the word on his tongue was not. Wilbur simply could not accept that this man believed himself his son. He would at least recognize his kin, else what kind of parent would he be?

“Hello, Fundy.”

He had said the words without registering them. The foxman, Fundy, stared at him in what once was fear, but now terror. 

“No. No, no, no, no, no. No. I’m seeing things. I have to be,” and with that Fundy fled, guitar in one hand and flag in the other. However, the flag tore as he left, the corner never having been freed of the sign.

As Fundy faded out of view, Wilbur stood, confused. He reached for the scrap of fabric hanging in the broken wood. Tracing the outline with his fingers he began to hum the song Fundy had been singing.

“...and not blown up L’manburg.”

He tucked the fabric into the black folds of his pockets.

“My, L’manburg. My L’manburg.”

Pushing off from the obsidian walls Wilbur began to walk in the direction Fundy had run.

“My L’manburg.”

The words felt safe and familiar, and he could almost make out a mesh of voices singing alongside his own.  
“My L’maaaannnburg.”


	2. Running

Night had fallen, but that was no surprise. Wilbur had walked, slowly, looking at all the buildings he passed. An ice cream shop, with red and white strips covering all visible surfaces. A flag pole, standing tall and facing the starry night sky, tattered remains of a flag still clinging to its rope. Then it was the lanterns.

A sea of lanterns hung in the air, their reflections glittering in the waters beneath them. Blue, yellow, red, and white danced across the gentle waves, flickering candlelight filling the dark.

Stilted building stood tall and proud, colorful, and quiet. Their oak walls seemed to glow the inviting orange of the fires above them. Flags decorated the area, hanging on every wall and home. The same flag as Fundy had worn. These looked much less tattered, newer, smaller.

A few shouts rang out, breaking the near silence.

Wilber had assumed everyone would be in their homes, asleep. Apparently, this was not the case.

A boy, brown hair wild and suit clearly slept in, was trying to calm down a much taller figure before him. The taller man had a flag wrapped around his shoulders and a guitar across his back. Fundy.

Quietly, as not to disturb the two, Wilber crept closer. He pressed against a structure, mostly made of glass, and listened to what was being said.

“I saw him. I swear- I’m not crazy. It was- I saw- He-” Fundy was stumbling over his words, sobs racking his body as he tried to speak to the smaller man.

A bee passed in between the two, buzzing softly and soon disappearing behind one of many hives in the enclosed space.

“Okay, hey, it’s okay, Fundy. I believe you. Do you wanna go back and check the tree?” asked the smaller man. 

“No. I want to go home. I wa- I want to sleep. To sleep. I think I need it. Yeah, need it…” Fundy trailed off, his friend having pulled him into a hug. “Thank you, Tubbo.”

“Anytime.”

Wilbur turned away from the glass, not noticing the blue marks, shaped like his hands, where he had just been touching the glass. He pressed into a wooden corner of the structure, his mind racing.

Why would Fundy be so sad to see him, so angry, so scared? Why would he run? 

In an attempt to remove himself from his head, he dug his shoulder into the wood of the building. He had expected to feel the wood rough against his shoulder, but that feeling never came. Instead, a strange feeling passed through him, and he fell.

Head bouncing off the soft grass below Wilber blinked. 

What?

He was inside the beehouse, on the ground before Tubbo and Fundy, who’s eyes were both wide with shock.

“Surely not…”

Wilber looked at them, and they just stared back. As the initial shock wore off their features, a look not unlike horror replaced it. A mix of sorrow, pain, and that damned fear took turns playing across their faces. 

“Hi?”

Wilbur’s voice reverberated through the room. 

Silence.

Then they ran. Tubbo and Fundy, running as fast as they could. Away, away. Far from him. Back to their city of lights and sea, away from a man who could hardly remember who he was. And they didn’t stop. 

They sprinted through their city, screaming for “Phil.” Their voices echoing in the night, drawing the attention of everyone nearby.

A tall man, his black and white hair displaying a crown stuck his head out of a window. His bicolored face exhausted but concerned. The cat on his shoulder yowled, as it was most likely awakened by the shouting boys.

A man in a blue outfit looked up from his spot on the raised path, fishing pole in hand. Unlike the man in the window, this man was quick to dismiss the screaming boys, a small smile playing at his face while he shook his head.

Must happen often then.

A loud crash sounded from the first man’s house, and all that could be heard was chaos. A few cats had begun to scream bloody murder, a dog was barking quite loudly, what sounded like a horse was stomping and neighing, and the man inside was yelling at them all.

“Sorry!” shouted Fundy and Tubbo in unison, climbing the stairs next door.

“It’s fine! Just, loud!” the man from the window replied, his low voice soothing the creatures he housed.

Knocking rapidly on the door, while still yelling, albeit much quieter than before, for “Phil”, Tubbo and Fundy took turns looking through the window. A light flickered on inside, and the door opened.

“It’s like 2 in the morning what do you kids want?” asked a voice from inside. Half laughing, half asleep, a man with a green-grey coat stepped into the night air. He was shorter than Fundy, but taller than Tubbo with a green-white striped hat over his long, blond hair.

“It’s Wilbur,” said Fundy, panic clear in his voice.

“He’s back.”

The man who must be “Phil” froze, and began scanning the area.

Wilbur wanted to hide, and was halfway to a “WANTED” poster of some pig man before Phil noticed him.

From across the boardwalk they stared at each other. This time it was Wilbur’s turn to run.

He sprinted across the boardwalk and jumped into the waters beneath. A burning sensation attacked his skin, but he ignored it. He swam for shore, and from there took off down the path he had come on, taking different turns and streets to avoid the blonde man who had looked at him with so much love, confusion, and sadness.

Wilbur collapsed on a bench, a jukebox playing some song nearby.

Maybe if the music weren’t so loud he would have heard Phil scream for him. Maybe he would have heard him yelling, “SON!” 

But the music was quite loud, and the bench quite comfortable, so he didn’t, falling into a sleep-like state instead. Back to that dark room, back to the men inside, and away from the real world once again. 

All while Phil sobbed, spreading his grey, broken wings wide. A sword fell from the wall, it’s sharp point embedded on the soft wooden floor below. Dried blood clung to it, as well as memories that would have been best left forgotten.


	3. TOMMYINNIT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) TW for Language (It's Tommyinnit what do y'all want from me?)  
> B) Starting now there is going to be some PTSD specifically in Philza, so be warned.
> 
> Enjoy :)

“Wilbur?” A voice called, sounding confused.

Wilbur stirred, uncurling his spine and stretching across the bench. He hadn’t slept. He couldn’t remember what he had been doing, but he remembered darkness, a man in a trench coat and a man with horns. If he were a different person he would have brushed it off as a dream or, to be more exact, a nightmare, but he knew it wasn’t.

“Oh my god! What the FUCK!” shouted the loud, confused voice that had “awakened” him.

A boy was standing in front of him, covered in dirt. His white and red shirt was filthy, and his hair was caked in mud. Despite this, he had a huge smile on his face, showing off silver braces that reflected the morning sun. He held a shovel in one hand, and cobblestone was spilling from his pockets. His other hand held a dirty cloth bag, and was clearly quite heavy.

“Can I help you?” asked Wilbur, a smile growing on his face.

“OH MY GOD IT IS YOU!” screamed the boy, dropping the bag and shovel to give him a hug. Cobblestone spilled from the bag, causing Wilbur to raise a brow. 

“Yeah, still love cobblestone,” said Tommy, his face buried into Wilbur’s shoulder. “You were dead, Phil killed you. I thought you were gone. How? How are you here?” the kid said.

With each word the boy clung to him tighter, to the point where Wilbur’s body was screaming at him that he couldn’t breathe, yet he felt no pain in his lungs or head. The screaming in his mind subsided and he hugged the boy back. This was the only person who seemed happy to see him.

They stayed like that for quite some time, as the boy slowly descended into tears, and Wilbur began to feel at home. After about fifteen minutes the boy had exhausted himself, and fell asleep on Wilbur’s lap.

Carefully, as not to wake the boy, Wilbur separated his hair from the mud, revealing blond locks beneath. He ruffled the kid’s hair, and smiled, looking past the bench at the view beyond. 

The jukebox had gone silent, so Wilbur filled the space, humming the song he had heard from Fundy. He only knew the first verse though, so he decided to sing some other songs, ones that were sitting in the back of his mind, begging to be released into the world.

“Cause he’s in your bed, but I’m in your twitch chat,” he sang, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve got the key but you’re just a doormat.”

“And even though he’s got social skills, that doesn’t mean I can’t pay the bills,” joined in a tired voice, wavering on the notes but not sounding bad. Wilbur looked down to the kid and smiled, and they continued singing.

A voice whispered in the back of his mind, “Remember.”

He ignored it. He remembered last night, the fear, sadness, and perhaps, regret in everyone's eyes. He didn't want to know why. He squeezed his eyes shut, and locked that voice away. Shut it in that dark room with the two men. It could wait.

\----------

“Phil?” 

The man was curled on his floor, his wings crumpled and hair a mess. Tears had stopped rolling down his face about three hours ago, but he had yet to move. His eyes were empty, staring right through anyone who had tried to comfort him.

The sword had been picked up, restored to its place on the wall, a dent still present in the floorboards beneath it.

“Phil I need you to look at me,” said a voice quietly. A gloved hand was rubbing his back, the pink fabric catching slightly.

“Phil. I have food for you,” said the voice, slightly more concerned than before. 

Finally, Phil looked up at the owner of the voice. A man, only slightly taller than him, was kneeling before him, soup on the ground beside him. The man’s long, pink hair pulled back in a loose braid that was clearly going to fall apart within the hour. Scars danced across his face as he smiled, noticing Phil’s movement.

“Hey, come on. We’ll sit on the bed and get some food in you, alright?” He grabbed Phil’s arms and pulled him up, practically dragging him to the bed.

The man with pink hair sighed, looking at the house. Last night the sword wasn’t the only thing to fall. Broken glasses were shattered on the floor, their contents spilled and soaking through the wood. The potions hadn’t been finished, and they smelled awful.

Pulling a long, fur lined, red cape from his shoulders he turned back to Phil. He draped the cape over the man’s shaking frame, and set to work cleaning the place up.

“Techno?” whispered Phil from his place on the bed.

“Yes?”

“He’s back. I didn’t- I didn’t…” he trailed off, leaving the pink haired man, Techno, to fill in the blanks.

Techno didn’t say anything, just handed Phil the soup and sighed. He sat beside his friend, putting his arm around him, and held him while he cried.


	4. TECHNOBLADEEE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying my best to stay caught up on current streams so I can keep the story relevant, but with school and writing this thing, I'm missing a LOT of streams. I have almost two chapters already written that I haven't posted yet, but after they post I'll probably take a break to catch up on the latest events.
> 
> Also, I'm pretty sure Techno is okay with being in fics as long as it's not shipping him with anyone. If I am mistaken and he just doesn't want to be in any, please inform me so I can try to rewrite this whole thing before it gets too far.
> 
> And no, I am NOT shipping Techno with anyone in this fic.
> 
> Love you, go drink some water. :)

“Tommy?” called a voice from outside.

Tommy had just finished wrapping Wilbur’s burns, and was digging through a chest looking for something to eat. Every few moments he would remove yet another bag of cobble from the chest, causing Wilbur to chuckle.

They had finished the house that morning, trading in dirt for the boy’s beloved cobblestone.

“Tommy!” called the voice again.

“It’s Tubbo,” said the boy, Tommy, turning to Wilbur.

“I’ll be in the back room.” Wilbur quickly left the room, using his ability to pass through the wall while Tommy answered the door.

Tubbo burst through the door, panicked. He was mumbling something incoherent as Tommy, concerned, led him to a bed. 

“Hey, you wanna try again?” he asked his friend, unlacing his arm from his shoulders, “In English this time though.”

The two boys laughed, but it was short-lived.

Tubbo looked up at him, tears streaming down his already pink face.

“Wilbur. He- He isn’t- He’s a ghost, or- something,” Tubbo finally cried, hugging Tommy tightly.

Tommy tried to act shocked, but there was a reason he was never cut out for the drama club. Recognition dawned on Tubbo’s face, and Tommy shifted, seemingly uncomfortable.

“You knew.”

“I saw him this morning, on the bench,” Tommy confessed, playing with his fingers.

“It’s been morning for almost six hours though!” Tubbo yelled, “Why didn’t you come tell me? You remember what he did, right? What if he’s here to do it again? And Phil-” He wasn’t crying anymore, but rather quite angry. His labored breathing was the only sound, save for a clock on the wall.

Tik. 

One minute.

Tok. 

Two.

Tik.

Thre- “I’m sorry.”

Wilbur peered into the room, his voice echoing through the stone room. Now holding the attention of both boys, he continued, “Hi, Tubbo, I was just talking to Tommy. I’m sorry if I caused you two to fight-” He was cut off by that weird feeling of passing through something as Tubbo reached out to him. 

Tubbo’s face went white as he quickly pulled back his hand from where he had placed it in Wilbur’s arm.

“Sorry, I-”

Looking at Tommy, Wilbur noticed the confusion on his face. It was a question Wilbur was asking himself, but he didn’t have an answer to. So, he shrugged, earning a grin from Tommy.

Again, that silence, this time a little more comfortable than the previous times.

“Wait! What about Phil?” 

Tommy’s loud voice broke off the quiet, earning a strange look from Wilbur and a panicked one from Tubbo.

Tubbo grabbed Tommy’s hand and started pulling him out of the house, saying he’d explain on the way. Tommy, thrown off balance by the sudden movement, grabbed onto Wilbur, steadying himself. Taking Tommy’s hand in his own, Wilbur followed the two young boys back towards the city of lanterns and waves.

\-----------

“No. I’m not letting you in,” said Techno, staring down the two boys and their “guest”. His white blouse was untucked, the sleeves rolled up past his forearms. Dark bags had settled in beneath his eyes, which were red-rimmed and glassy. 

Anyone could see that he hadn’t slept, and was most likely up crying with Phil. The usually so well put together swordsman looked as if a slight breeze could take him out.

“Technoblade, please,” Tubbo asked for the fifth time, “please let us talk to him.”

“No.” Techno was staring at Wilbur, and while he didn’t look scared or sad, he didn’t look particularly happy to see him either.

Having noticed this, Wilbur was practically cowering behind Tommy, who was paying no attention to what was happening. Instead, the boy was glaring at Technoblade, fear and anger fighting for control of his expression.

It was an odd scene. Techno stood at the base of the stairs to Phil’s house, facing Tommy and Tubbo, who stood beside each other. Wilbur was behind Tommy, crouched as to hide completely behind the shorter boy, and was using the boy’s shoulder to stabilize himself. 

Fundy and a girl stood off to one side, while the black and white man and man in blue from last night stood to the other. A ninth person hung back, his blue hat pulled down over dark black hair as he began to fume. The tenth and final person, a man in a multicolored sweatshirt, held him back from joining the others.

“I don’t know Techno,” said the black and white man, adjusting his crown, “maybe we should let them talk?”

Techo turned to him, a slightly wild look in his eyes, “No. Phil can’t take it, and I can’t lose him.”

“Ranboo,” the girl beside Fundy said, addressing the black and white individual, “Maybe you talk to Phil for a while? He’s probably realized what's happening out here, and you’re good at handling people.”

The man, Ranboo, looked at Techno, and began to move towards the house. He was obnoxiously tall, with an incredibly slim figure that made him appear as though he were starved, or simply not human.

Surprisingly, Techno let him pass, and Ranboo placed his crown on Techno’s head as he walked past him.

“I noticed you don’t have yours,” he said, reaching for the doorknob, “You need it more than I do right now anyways,” he finished, disappearing into the house.

“Thanks,” Techno mumbled, barely a whisper. His thoughts began to calm, and he focused on the one that wasn’t screaming at him. 

E. E. E. E. E.

“E,” he said, and where there had been a wild look in his eye there was now cunning. He stared at everyone, his eyes cold and calculating.

“Only Wilbur. The rest of you have to go,” he finally said, bringing his attention back to Wilbur.

“Can we wait outside?” asked the guy in blue, bringing a fishing pole out from behind his back.

“No. Connor, leave.”

And Connor left, followed by Fundy, the two men who had held back from the group, and Tommy. Tubbo waited for the girl to reach him, and began to walk with her instead of the others.

“Thank you Niki. I’m sorry, I know it must hurt,” he said, counting each plank as he walked.

The girl, Niki, only smiled, “It does hurt. It really does,” and a single tear drug along her cheek, making it only halfway down her face before she wiped it away, setting her face with determination.

Both Niki and Tubbo began to jog, catching up to the group in front of them, leaving Wilbur, Techno, Phil, and Ranboo behind.


	5. Ghostbur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur speaks to Phil for the first time since his death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna put a trigger warning for disassociation and panic attacks.
> 
> Also- I'M NOT SHIPPING RANBOO AND TECHNOBLADE I JUST NEED THEM TO BE FRIENDLY TO EACHOTHER FOR FUTURE REFERENCES.

Phil held onto the boy’s gloved hands, eyes screwed shut.

“Hey, it’s okay, Philza,” whispered Ranboo, wincing as his hands were squeezed even harder by the man before him.

“He’s outside, isn’t he?” asked the man, slightly loosening his grip on Ranboo’s fingers.

Before he could respond, another voice interrupted their conversation.

“Phil?” called Techno’s deep voice from outside.

“Can I- uh- come in?” a higher, more familiar voice reverberated through the small house.

Phil froze, his hands going limp before trading Ranboo’s hands for the cape he wore. Ranboo removed the cape from Phil’s shoulders, hoping to save Techno’s heat source for when the man eventually left. It took him all of three minutes to work the fabric from between the older man’s fingers.

During which time he responded for the frozen man, “I think he’s ready, but be careful.”

Techno entered first, almost running to Phil the moment he entered. He stood beside the bed, watching the man’s face intently as Wilbur entered the room. But not through the door.

He entered through the wall, which left the three other individuals in the room with gaping mouths, with the exception of Phil, whose jaw was so clenched Techno was afraid it was going to snap.

“Um, hi?” said Wilbur, a confused smile on his face.

It was all the invitation Phil needed. He sprung from the bed, gathering his supposed to be dead son in his arms. His sobs weren’t the only ones though, Techno had begun to cry as well. Ranboo, having never met Wilbur before that day, had no idea what was happening, but did his best.

He pulled on Techno’s arm until the man was sitting on the bed, before pulling him into a tight hug and whispering to him.

“It’s gonna be okay. I’m here for you.”

And Techno, who was so used to fighting, collapsed into Ranboo, exhausted and heart-broken, in much the same way Phil was. He was so tired of being strong and was thankful to be allowed to be weak for even one moment.

\-----------

By the time everyone had calmed down, it was almost five in the afternoon. Ranboo, acting as the caretaker, pulled some bread from the furnace and a few smoked salmon from a barrel. He gave the food to everyone, and went upstairs, to offer them some privacy.

Beneath him, a conversation began to flow between the three who he had left behind.

“Will, I thought you were dead?” asked Techno, confusion and relief fighting in his voice.

“I killed you, I drove that sword through your heart,” Phil said, barely a second after Techno had finished speaking, “you died in my arms.”

Wilbur looked at them and began to laugh. Phil and Techno exchanged a look and opened their mouths to ask, but Wilbur cut them off.

“That explains a lot,” he laughed. He doubled over, and without realizing it began to rise. He hovered before the two, his knees to his chest as he laughed and laughed, more panicked than amused.

He had heard Tubbo call him a ghost, heard Tommy mention his death, had known he only just became able to pass through things, and knew that only a ghost wouldn’t be able to truly sleep. He just had avoided it. The truth. He didn’t want to admit it. He was dead, and that truth sunk deep into his heart, or at least where his heart used to reside.

“Wilbur.”

He was dead, he didn’t know who he was, didn’t recognize anyone. He didn’t have a home, a reason to exist-

“WILBUR!”

The yell was loud enough to earn a concerned call from Ranboo upstairs, asking if they needed anything. Techno told him, no and turned. He paced back and forth along already worn floorboards before turning and grabbing an axe from his belt. The smooth metal head glinted in the torch-lit room. 

Techno just sighed, digging his nails into the wooden shaft of the weapon with a death grip. His knuckles had turned white by the time he finally released it, sending it flying across the room. The pointed edge of the axe bore into the wall, knocking a clock to the floor and shattering it. The broken glass sat on the floor, lying in wait for a misplaced foot.

Now Ranboo came downstairs, having heard the crack of the wood and breaking glass. Making eye contact with Techno he nodded, understanding it can’t be easy on the shorter man. He pulled the cape off the bed and draped it over Techno’s shoulders, telling him to take a walk, that he probably needed some fresh air and some time to clear his head. Techno was almost out the door before he heard Wilbur say something from across the room.

“Phil? Was it? You said I was your son?”

Techno froze from his place by the door, shock stealing his movements. Behind him, Phil had the same reaction.

“I-I don’t remember- I don’t remember anything,” whispered the ghost, his dark eyes bleeding blue, “I forgot- I forgot all of it.”

In moments both Techno and Phil were by his side, reaching for his arms, his face, to soothe the dead man with a touch. Their hands passed right through him, sending Phil stumbling forwards and startling Techno to backing up, hand instinctively pressing on the hilt of his sword.

Bright blue pooled at Wilbur’s feet, seeping into the floorboards. The ghost’s bandages began to color as well, before falling off and allowing the color to flow from the wounds on his arms.

“Will…” Phil’s voice trailed off, unsure of what to do.

“Don’t call me that,” snapped Wilbur, his tears and sorrow twisting into anger, “I don’t remember who that is anymore.” 

Phil started towards him again, his footsteps squeaking on the now soaked floor. He reached for the man he had once called son, but forced his fingers to a halt mere centimeters from the man’s shoulder. He raised his eyes and stared down the inky black of his boy’s. There used to be so much joy, so much wit, in those eyes.

His hand twitched, filling the distance between them. This time his hand found the soft yellow yarn of the ghost’s sweater. He traced circles with his thumb, the yarn stretching and falling back into place beneath his finger.

“What should I call you then?” Phil asked, wishing he could embrace the crying man, yet knowing nothing good would come of it.

The ghost was silent, the black void of his eyes lighting up as an idea entered his mind. A half-smile tugged at a corner of his mouth.

“Call me Ghostbur.”


	6. Fishing

Fundy was sitting on the dock, his feet dangling over the edge of the boarding. His shoes lie beside him, safe from the waves beneath. The wooden pole dug into his hands, roughly sanded but not well enough to prevent an occasional sliver. A wave, slightly larger than the rest, licked at his toes, drawing the man from his thoughts. 

“Hey, how ya doing bud?” asked a voice beside him.

Phil was leaning against supporting beams of the dock. He was facing Fundy, his knees bent and head cocked. 

It had been a little over a week since Wilbur had returned, and everything had settled into a calm, familiar pattern. Techno had gone home, and Ghostbur had built a home in the sewers. The dead man had been so happy to belong somewhere. The memory of the excited ghost renewed the positive attitude Phil held.

“I’m doing okay,” Fundy replied, not taking his eyes off of the spot in the water where his line disappeared.

Phil smiled, taking his striped sunhat and dumping it over Fundy’s head. He ruffled the boy’s hair beneath the hat. Fundy broke his concentration, smiling at his Grandfather.

He was learning to fish, Fundy. The low quality pole he now grasped was of his own design, with some help from Phil. 

A sharp tug on the end of his line snapped him back to attention. Fundy grinned, but quickly shifted to panic.

“PHIL I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO! PHILZA MINECRAFT! HELP ME!” he shouted, almost releasing his pole into the water.

“Oh my goodness,” laughed Phil, grabbing the bent piece of wood from his grandson. 

He demonstrated how to reel in the fish, grinning as Fundy swiped the poor creature off the hook. The younger man’s clawed hands gently held the wriggling creature, intent on not harming it. 

The foxman looked up, beaming, fish in hand. His face quickly fell to a concerned frown as he gave a closer look to the fish in his hand. A salmon.

“Phil…”

“I think you many have caught a distant relative or something,” Phil said, his voice stuck between concern and bursting out laughing.

“Umm… could you put that away?” asked a voice from behind them. 

The two turned, coming face to face with Ghostbur. His pale form was hiding behind a pole on the dock, slowly creeping forward. The ghost’s eyes were locked on the fish in Fundy’s hands.

“Fundy, it’s gonna make me do something I don’t wanna do,” whispered Ghostbur, now only a few feet away from his once-son. They both just stood there, staring at the salmon in Fundy’s hands. A moment of realization dawned on Phil as he watched the exchange.

“Oh, yeah, your mother was a salmon,” Phil said to Fundy, he quickly grabbed the fish from the fox’s hands. “I’m releasing it, this got weird,” he finished, reaching towards the water.

“No! Let me!” shouted Fundy, opening and closing his hands in a gesture better suiting a young child.

“Fine.”

Once he had the fish, Fundy turned to the water, dangling his feet back over the side. Without warning, he chucked the fish as far as he could, earning some distraught sound from Ghostbur and a concerned one from Phil.

“THAT IS NOT HOW YOU RELEASE A FISH!” Phil yelled, almost laughing.

A painful sounding ‘smack’ and the sound of splashing silenced the three men. The fish disappeared into the depths of the lake. Silence followed, soon filled with heartfelt laughter.

As the fishing trip came to a close, Fundy and Ghostbur gathered the poles and bait while Phil stretched. He had been leaning on that pole for over thirty minutes, and his back was not appreciative. 

As they all turned to leave, Phil looked back and smiled as a dead salmon floated to the surface of the lake. It was all he could do to contain his laughter.

\--------

“What do you mean? I thought I was a good dad?” asked Ghostbur, now following Fundy over a hill on the opposite side of New L’manburg.

“You were, for a time,” replied his son, pointedly refusing to make eye contact with the dead man.

“I don’t understand, what did I do?” 

“Well… I guess I just wasn’t important to you as your L’manburg,” said the fox, his voice questionably steady given the nature of the conversation.

The ghost was more choked up as he asked what had happened.

Fundy sighed, finally deciding to look at the individual he was speaking to. He turned and sat on the hill, his back facing the direction he had just been traveling.

“You went crazy, abandoned me, and blew up the whole country.”

“WHAT?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sure I didn’t mean to.”

“You definitely did.”

Ghostbur started to defend himself, but his words fell on deaf ears. The quiet hum of his voice filled the air, but his words were blurred by Fundy’s thoughts. The foxman took a deep breath and shouted, “Shut up, Wilbur! You were a terrible person, and honestly? I’m glad that Eret’s adopting me. Maybe now I’ll have a decent parent.”

This silenced Ghostbur.

“What?” he asked quietly, “Eret?”

“Yeah,” Fundy sighed and stood up, dusting off the back of his pants.

“I thought he was a bad person?” said Ghostbur, still stunned.

“Why?” 

Now it was Fundy’s turn to be stunned. The man who had betrayed him was calling the man who had stood by him a “bad person?” The irony was almost enough to force a pained laugh from his chest, but instead, it was a yell. It was a yell that echoed across the hills and back into L’manburg. It was a yell that left indisputable silence in its wake.

“WHO CARES AT LEAST HE’S BETTER THAN YOU! HE DIDN’T LEAVE ME!”

Tears fell from the eyes of both men. Fundy turned, storming off in his original direction, Ghostbur electing to go the opposite.

If anyone were to walk up the hill they would see a trail of footprints leading North, and a trail of something blue, resembling tears, heading South.

But nobody did. And the wind took them both.


	7. Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned this before- but I am taking some... creative liberties with this story. Please don't be upset that I stray from the actual timeline of the SMP.

A clear substance balanced in hands that were only ever half there. Color began to seep into the substance, blue. The blue went from light and soft to a dark, deep color. When it fell through the hands it landed on the floor, leaving a large stain where it had landed. The hands were stained as well. In fact, everything in the room, Ghostbur’s home, was faintly coated in a layer of blue.

The long scrapes of hand on walls where Ghostbur had pounded against the stone? Blue.

The fingerprints around the locks on the chests where he had fumbled to open them? Blue.

The handmade indentations on the door, where the lock was busted and glass shattered? Blue.

The owner of the hands? Blue.

If anything, the color was a drug. It absorbed the sadness, the fear, anything bad. It left a hollowness and false joy. A tool of optimism it could be called.

Or a tool of sorrow.

Ghostbur sat in the center of the room, his pale skin matching everything around him.

Blue.

It pulled his sorrow away, it packed up the fractured memories that plagued his thoughts.

“You’re the reason L’manburg was destroyed!” screamed the voice in his head. 

It may have been his conscience, it may have been the living Wilbur, or it may have simply been his own thoughts turned angrily against him.

“You made Phil kill his own son!”

“You broke two- no- THREE children who needed you!”

“You abandoned your son!”

“It’s all your fault!”

The ghost screamed, “No!” and held the blue close to him. It took everything away. The voice was gone.

Silence.

Loneliness.

Only these two things remained.

What is a man who chooses to forget everything he loves? A coward. But in his own mind, he is the best kind of coward. He believes himself to simply need a break. That he is right. It doesn’t make him any less of a coward, but at least he will admit that he is.

However, a man who has already forgotten what he used to love, and who is being beaten by his own consciousness will not admit he is a coward. He will pretend he is okay. He will seek that absence of thought and lie in his own, empty mind. When that emptiness takes over, he will shy from the sorrow and guilt. He won’t admit it to be his own fault.

Ghostbur was the latter.

As the blue stole his mind, he fell deeper and deeper into the black hole of loneliness. His desire for warmth became unbearable. His thoughts wouldn’t connect anymore.

When a person blocks their memory, they change. Had Ghostbur decided to keep and pursue his memory, he might have been able to achieve stability. Instead, he tried to hold it off, earning the barrage of screams in his head. Then he decided to simply rip the memories away from himself.

It led him to his current state.

His arms, still burning from contact with water were angry, and his own blood, blue as the material he now clutched, seeped from the open wounds. His eyes were hollow, an empty dark, unable to register any of his surroundings. His clothes and skin were blue, stained, same with the majority of the room he was in.

He was curled on the floor, his shoulder pressing into the boards on which he lay. His elbows dug into his thighs and his hands wrapped around the substance, the blue, he held.

Tears fell down his face, unbeknownst to him. He wasn’t there. He was back on that bench, smiling at the sunrise, singing with the blonde boy.

The boy’s voice and face were both blurred, and not long after it was silent.

As the blue took its effect, the boy began to fade, slipping through the fingers of the dead man who held him. Soon it was just a black room, a ghost on a bench, and a heavy feeling of nothingness.

\------------

“You’re in rough shape,” slurred a voice from behind Ghostbur.

In the corner of the dark room of his dead mind, a man appeared to be leaning against the wall. A black suit coat was crumpled beside him, revealing what seemed to have at one point been a white button-down shirt. Now it was stained and wrinkled, a few buttons missing. His red tie was almost completely undone. 

If the voice and appearance of the man hadn’t let on to the man’s drunken state, the flask in his hand did. A cigarette hung from the man’s lips, the smoke curling around horns that seemed to be set into his skull.

“Who are you?” asked Ghostbur, a worried expression fought for his face, but he pushed it back, unwilling to give into his fear.

“What? Ya mean to tell me you don’t recognise me?” The horned man laughed, a broken sound, and doubled over as his laughs faded into coughing.

“Should I?” responded Ghostbur, slowly peeling himself from the wood of the bench.

“I mean, we’ve been in this god-forsaken place long enough,” said the horned man, “And we did know each other before too,” he added.

“Oh.”

The horned man gave him a strange look, “I could have sworn you were in that ugly-ass trenchcoat a few minutes ago, this must be some good whisky,” he said, once again dissolving into laughter.

“I’m sorry I-”

“That’s enough, Schlatt,” cut in a familiar voice from behind. 

As Ghostbur whipped his head around to find the owner of the voice, and found himself back in his home. A person stood before him, but he couldn’t make out any features. It was all blurry, distorted.

He could hardly piece together the voice that was flooding his ears, but he was able to separate the words, “help” and a moment later, “Will?”


	8. Dream

The distant feeling of being carried registered, and the ghost did nothing. He let himself be taken from the room, from his home, and away from the blue. 

The words “Okay?,” and, “Will?” bounced around inside his head before he registered that someone was speaking to him again. The words, crisp in actuality, became slurred and uneven in Ghostbur’s head. His brain was pounding against his skull, and gave him a headache like he’d never experienced before.

Then again, he wouldn’t remember. Would he?

Mistaking the voice for the man from the dark room, he mumbled the supposed name of that horned individual.

“Schlatt?”

His voice was hardly above a whisper, and cracked as he spoke. The person carrying him did not hear, but if they had, they didn't appear to care.

As Ghostbur slowly regained his senses, he came to the stark realization that he was not actually being carried, rather, he was being drug. He was propped up on someone’s shoulder, their arm tight around his back. He could feel his feet scraping across the uneven ground.

The person who was pulling him along was short, and his brown, or, maybe it was blond? hair was messed around like it had been tugged on.

“What happened?!” screamed a voice from somewhere.

“I don’t know, I found him like this,” responded the tired voice of the person holding him up.

A moment later he felt somebody prop his other side up on their shoulder, and a hand snake around his back.

“Where we going, Big Man?” 

“Let’s just take him to your house.”

And so they did, Ghostbur’s head spinning the entire trip.

\------------------------------------

A few hours had passed, and Ghostbur was feeling much better. He pulled his head up from the pillow he was buried into. Cobblestone walls greeted him as he swept his gaze across the room. His eyes eventually fell on two sleeping figures sitting on the floor.

Tubbo was pressed against the wall, his head on Tommy’s shoulder as he slept. Tommy was no different, his head atop of Tubbo’s. Their knees were drawn to their chests, and they were clearly worn out.

Ghostbur smiled, and pulled the blankets off of the bed he had been lying on. He drug the quilted pieces across the room, draping it over the sleeping children.

After making sure to leave a note on the door, Ghostbur quietly floated his way out of the cobblestone house.

Sunlight tore at the skin on his hands and face, but it was a welcome feeling. It made the cold grasp of death a little warmer, made him feel... almost, alive.

As he made his way along the path to L’manburg, Ghostbur began to hum. The notes that filled his head soon filled the air around him. 

“And your water gave me cancer, and the pavement hurt my feelings,” he sang, his voice strong and unwavering. And then he rounded the corner- and the words that had so effortlessly fell from his tongue fell still.

Walls.

Huge, black, all-encompassing obsidian walls.

They wrapped around L’Manburg in much the same way a cautious parent wraps their arms around their child. A man stood atop the walls, his black armor glinting in the sunlight. Bright, lime green fabric lay beneath the armor, and as the man moved, it would flicker in and out of sight.

As Ghostbur watched, the man built the walls higher, higher, and higher. At one point the man turned around, and his gaze fell upon the ghost. 

“Hey, Wilbur,” he called, dropping a bag of obsidian on the ground beside him. 

“Ghostbur.”

“What?”

“It’s Ghostbur now.”

“Oh.”

The man jumped down from the wall, but was able to drop water below himself as he fell, preventing him from hurting himself. Landing on his feet in the water, he quickly scooped it up before the ground absorbed it. The man began to walk towards Ghostbur, his armor clinking with each step.

“So, Ghostbur, huh?” he asked, reaching towards his head. 

The man’s hands wrapped around his helmet, carefully spinning it off to reveal a white mask. Granted, it could hardly be called a mask. The round, white sphere covered the man’s entire head. Small slits were carved into it in the shape of a smile. It was child-quality. The slits were pressed all the way through the material of the mask, and, when looked through carefully, revealed the whites of the man’s eyes and the red of his mouth.

“I’m Dream, assuming nobody’s told you about me,” the man, Dream, said with what sounded like a smile.

“Nice to meet you, but-” Ghostbur gestured to the wall, his hands flailing at his loss for words, “What is this?” he finally said. 

Dream laughed, amusement clear in the way he stood. Quite soon, the man was doubled over, his laughter turned to something closer to a gasp.

Fearing for Dream’s life, Ghostbur began to speak. His panic growing the whole while.

“Should I go get Tommy? Tubbo? Maybe Phil would help. Where’s Techno? He always knows what to do. What’s wrong? Can you breathe? Oh no, this isn’t good. What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?-” he was cut off by another wheeze from Dream. 

This time, instead of panic, realization washed over him. The guy was laughing. 

Embarrassed for the misunderstanding, Ghostbur backed up, moving in a wide arc towards the wall.

“I’m just gonna... go…” he mumbled, making a break towards the obsidian while Dream nodded, still a wheezing mess, behind him.

That strange feeling of passing through objects filled Ghostbur’s body, but for once he hardly noticed.


End file.
